You really should be painting Mr. Van Vechten now, said Clara Barnes, with a trace of malice. He has the right expression.
I hope I haven't interrupted your work, said Peter.
No, I'm through today, Martha rejoined. We're neither of us in the mood. Besides it's absurd to try to paint in this light.
Painting, Peter went on, is not any easier than writing. Always the search for—for what? he asked suddenly, turning to me.
For truth, I suppose, I replied.
I thought you would say that but that's not what I meant, that's not at all what I meant.
This logogriph rather concluded that subject, for Peter did not explain what it was that he did mean. Neither did he wear a conscious air of obfuscation. He rambled on about many things, spoke of new people, new books, new music, and he also mentioned Mary Garden.
I have heard of Mary Garden for the first time today, I said, and I am beginning to be interested.
You haven't seen her? demanded Peter. But she is stupendous, soul, body, imagination, intellect, everything! How few there are. A lyric Mélisande, a caressing Manon, a throbbingly wicked Chrysis. She is the cult in Paris and the Opéra-Comique is the Temple where she is worshipped. I think some day this new religion will be carried to
